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Now Playing on Outworld 5730

Page 28

by R. T. W. Lipkin


  She could barely stand any longer, and there was nothing to lean against since the transparent walls were rigged to burn at the slightest touch, and there was also no room to sit. She watched as a passerby read the sign and shivered.

  “Do you know what this says?” the passerby asked. He was a slim young boy, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the way her brother had looked the last time she’d seen him, just hours before she’d killed her father.

  “No, Alexander,” she said.

  She yearned to see her family again, and was momentarily relieved of the fear she felt for her unborn son as she pretended this person was her brother. Clive hadn’t told her exactly what he was going to do to her son after he arrived, but she had to get him away from here.

  “The sign says that you are going to give birth to a demon,” said the passerby. “And that you are Satan’s soulless mistress.”

  “That’s all right, then,” she said. She’d been worried the sign was inviting people to harm her and her son, even though no one had as yet.

  The passerby turned to walk away.

  “Alexander,” Marguerite called after him, but he didn’t turn around because he wasn’t Alexander. Or because he didn’t hear her. Or because no one wants to speak with Satan’s soulless mistress, not even her own brother.

  She’d saved him, and she would save her son.

  Very satisfying, don’t you think?

  Much easier the second time. Hadn’t Clive himself said that? But first she’d make sure her son was safe. Nicholas would take care of him. Then she’d see to Clive.

  When she got up in the early morning to use the toilet and heave for the first time that day, she remembered that although she’d been certain before, now she didn’t know who’d given her the antidote. If it hadn’t been Nicholas—and she was relatively sure it hadn’t been—who had it been? And why?

  It could be anyone here.

  “Shall I have breakfast brought up?” Nicholas said when she came back into his room.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” she said. She needed to carefully examine everyone at Hollyhock.

  But first she had to go back to her rooms and ring for Allene. She wanted to look her best while she was investigating.

  Chapter 96

  “Well, I was hoping he was really dead too,” Fitzmore said, whispering into Vernie’s ear as he carefully eyed the platter of pastries, eventually selecting the one he’d determined was the best.

  “Still, the duel. It was very very too exciting,” Vernie said. She had to unloop her arm from Baron North’s so she could put her breakfast choices on her plate. Fitzmore always took the best of the pastries but she’d get that lovely piece of herring or whatever it was supposed to be.

  “I thought your information was guaranteed ironclad,” Fitzmore whispered to Vernie as they took their plates to the unoccupied end of the breakfast table. The unquestionably alive Saybrook himself, along with his now great pal Trevelton, were at the table’s other end, laughing it up.

  “Of course it is,” Vernie said. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “She’s got a point there, old man,” North, who was several years older than Fitzmore, said.

  “We just have to wait it out,” Vernie said, then cut into her herring or whatever it was supposed to be, put the fork in her mouth, and moaned in appreciation. “There’s still time.”

  “Not that much,” the viscount said. He was cutting up his pastry now, doing it like he did everything—with too much care and deliberation. “I like to be sure of things.”

  “I was assured,” Vernie said. “And the source is impeccable. Just wait.”

  “Are we going back upstairs after breakfast?” North said. He was eating a hard-boiled egg and smothering it in salt after every bite.

  “If you insist,” Fitzmore, looking at Vernie, said.

  “That would be just lovely,” Vernie said, sighing as she stared at Fitzmore. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “I’ve never known another woman like you,” Fitzmore said.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Vernie said as she smiled and cut into her fish. “Wait until you see my costume tonight!”

  “How will I know it’s you?” Baron North said. He was working on another egg, this one apparently in need of even more salt than the last.

  Vernie just laughed at the baron and went back to her breakfast.

  At the table’s other end, Lady Katherine, her breakfast plate holding only a thin slice of cured meat, sat down next to Lord Trevelton.

  “Good morning, my lord,” Lady Katherine said.

  Trevelton stood up. “Good morning, my lady. Saybrook and I are just leaving.”

  The earl quickly shoveled the rest of his breakfast into his mouth, pushed his plate away, and got up from the table.

  “Looking forward to tonight?” Lady Katherine said as she craned her long neck to look up at Trevelton.

  “Why’s that?” Saybrook said as he swallowed. Unlike Lord Trevelton, who was his usual natty self, Saybrook was his usual sloppy self, his dark blond hair in disarray and his cravat tied so poorly Lady Katherine wondered if he’d looked at himself once before he’d come downstairs.

  “The ball, you idiot,” said Trevelton. Really, now that the two duelers were friends, couldn’t Saybrook take a hint from Trevelton and do something about his appearance? It might keep the competition for the elegant marquess down a bit, giving Lady Katherine a better chance at him.

  “Ah yes,” said Saybrook. “I have my mask all polished up and ready to go. Come on, Trev. It’s getting late.”

  “Going riding again?” Lady Katherine said. She put her head at what had been described to her as the perfect angle to complement her features, showing off her long neck and sculpted jawline.

  “Yes, my lady,” said Trevelton.

  “I’d love to learn,” Lady Katherine said, sighing slightly. “If only someone would teach me.”

  “Yes, that would be necessary,” Saybrook said. “You can hardly hope to jump on a horse and simply know how to ride.”

  “Did you have lessons, Saybrook?” Trevelton was smiling his wickedest smile.

  “Well, not exactly,” Saybrook said.

  “See?” Trevelton said. “You can just jump on a horse and simply know how to do it. Saybrook here did so himself, despite his protests.”

  “For pity’s sake, Trev. That’s not what I meant.” Saybrook ran his hand into his hair, further disturbing the unruly mass.

  “I shall have to ask if there are riding lessons available,” Lady Katherine said.

  “Shall we go, Saybrook?” Trevelton said.

  “I’m looking forward to this evening,” Lady Katherine said. “They’re going to be playing the latest waltzes.”

  At the other end of the table, Vernie Dalston erupted in a hail of laughter as Saybrook and Trevelton fled the dining room.

  Chapter 97

  Lady Patience sat as still as she possibly could while the ever-inept Harriette tried for the zillionth or maybe the quadzillionth time to do her hair in the very simplest of styles, one that Lettie had so easily accomplished. One that Lettie had instructed Harriette in innumerable times during the last several days.

  And to think that she had criticized Lettie, making her work so hard just because her coif wasn’t perfectly perfect. Now it was so far from perfect that Lady Patience was thinking of chopping it all off, Regency era or not. Maybe she could get some kind of a period-approved hat to wear for the rest of the majestic. Or a wig. Or just be Regency England’s first truly free spirit.

  At least for the masked ball tonight Lettie would do her hair—she’d promised even though she was preparing to leave and still had so much to do—and Lady Patience would have one last chance to look her best.

  The players from Brixton were attending the ball as well, and even though she’d attended two other social events with them, Lady Patience was still hoping that her future mate was in that group, since he absolutely wasn’t in the group at Hollyhock
. And maybe she hadn’t met everyone at Brixton yet. She wasn’t sure.

  She felt like she’d tried out every possibility, even thinking at one point that she hadn’t given a fair chance to that awful Lord Fitzmore who Vernie seemed to like so much. How Vernie could let him touch her was a mystery to Lady Patience.

  Vernie herself was lately a mystery to Lady Patience. Hadn’t they been good friends? But no longer.

  Pamela’d seen this sort of thing happen at majestics before, so it was hardly a surprise. Although when something you’ve seen happen to someone else happens to you, it can’t help but be somewhat of a surprise, she thought. Because you’d never thought it would happen to you.

  That was the problem with observing other people’s lives—they weren’t your own.

  “Harriette,” Lady Patience said. “Maybe just a simple chignon for this morning. I really must get downstairs before all the choicest foods are gone.”

  Yet in fact Lady Patience always waited until the last minute to go down to breakfast, since invariably Calvert would be in the dining room then, seeing to the last of the food, making sure that everything had been properly taken care of and that there were no stragglers needing to be fed.

  “Did something happen with the duchess’s lady’s maid?” Lady Patience said.

  If Harriette was no good at hairstyling or choosing the right outfit or taking care of her clothing—she’d ruined some of her favorites already—or unearthing the hidden gems of Hollyhock’s grounds—all things that, among many others, Lettie was so good at—then maybe Harriette knew more gossip than the never-forthcoming Lettie did.

  “Why do you ask, my lady?” Harriette said as she dropped the hairpins she’d been holding and had to stoop to pick them up.

  “She’s seems—I don’t know. Twitchy lately. And a bit pale.” Lady Patience took one of the more uncomfortable pins out of her hair and threw it on the vanity. Maybe she would chop it all off.

  “I don’t really know Allene, my lady,” Harriette said. “She keeps to herself. Very discreet, my lady.”

  “And you?”

  “Of course, my lady. You can depend on me.” Harriette jabbed a pin into Lady Patience’s nape. That was really quite enough.

  “Thank you, Harriette. You can go now.”

  “I’m getting better, my lady,” Harriette said with a hopeful smile as she looked into the mirror at the dreadfully lopsided hairdo she’d created.

  “Of course,” Lady Patience said, wondering if there were anyone else downstairs who could possibly take over for Lettie tomorrow.

  Maybe Cook could be convinced to sneak upstairs at least in the afternoons to do her hair for dinner. She could hardly be worse at it than Harriette was.

  After Harriette left, Lady Patience glanced at the time, took her hair down, and made a perfectly good chignon all by herself. She’d watched Lettie so many times that she’d learned something—a skill that her new lady’s maid lacked.

  Thank the gods that Lettie would do her hair for the ball tonight. The entire manor house was electrified by the upcoming event and Lady Patience absolutely had to look divine, or as divine as possible.

  Could she really do another majestic after this one? Lady Patience wondered as she looked at herself and readjusted her corset. How was she ever going to find the mate she was searching for? Another century perhaps?

  Yet Regency England had seemed the perfect choice—so romantic, and the flattering clothing. Although that choice had been made months ago.

  Was it late enough that she’d be sure to run into Calvert? She glanced at the clock again and thought how grand it would be if he’d dance with her tonight.

  Her body could almost feel him with his arm around her waist, her hand in his, his tall, imposing form in front of her, the surge of emotion as they whirled around the ballroom floor together. He must be a tremendously good dancer, she thought. Those broad shoulders, that commanding presence, the beautiful way he held himself. And his gentle, kind manner.

  She heard the pounding beat of running footsteps in the hallway as she gave herself one last look in the mirror, turning around as she admired her self-styled chignon, then made her way downstairs to breakfast.

  Just late enough, she hoped.

  Chapter 98

  Johnny was nearly breathless when he got to the duchess’s doorway. But it wasn’t so much the exertion of running as it was the sheer excitement of the message he was about to deliver. This was the sort of thing that made his job fun, maybe even more fun than the excitement he himself was able to create every day.

  Although hardly more fun than what he and Harriette were planning to do after the ball tonight. He’d even managed to take a bottle of wine—not the best but not the everyday wine either—from the cellar and had stashed it in what he and Harriette had started calling the Duelers Den in the back of the stables.

  It was the perfect trysting place, and hay made a surprisingly comfortable bedding material. No wonder horses liked it so much, Johnny thought as he knocked on the duchess’s door after listening to make sure none of the usual sparring was going on.

  The duke himself answered the door. He was only partially dressed, and his cravat hung, untied, from the neck of his open shirt.

  “Your Grace,” Johnny said. “I have a message for your duchess. Sir. My lord.”

  Best to throw everything in there in case he’d missed some fine point of Regency etiquette, which still after all these months made utterly no sense to Johnny.

  What was wrong with calling the man Edgar? Wasn’t that his name? Or even Mr. Samuelson or maybe Duke Samuelson, if he was really picky about hearing his exalted, fake title. Or the High Holy Lord of Bedford. Yeah, that’d be good. He’d tell Harriette later. And Rosie.

  “What is it, young man?” Apparently the duke hadn’t learned Johnny’s name either, despite all the contact he’d had with him.

  “I’m supposed to speak directly with your duchess, Your Grace. With Her Grace, I mean. Directly, Mrs. Allman said. Sir.”

  The duke sighed and closed the door. Johnny stood in the corridor, no longer breathless. He stared at the painting hanging on the wall to his right and thought that Rosie’s work was superior. He remembered how she and Samantha used to sit for hours playing at getting ready for their grand two-woman shows, finishing their paintings in a headlong dash.

  Samantha was often finished first. She had more skill than Rosie did, but Rosie’s work had something that not only Samantha’s but most other painters’ didn’t have—an uncontrolled ease and seemingly careless finesse.

  Now Samantha was finished with everything, not just painting, and Rosie’s ease was also finished.

  Johnny knocked on the door again. Think about Harriette, he told himself firmly. Won’t see Samantha until we get home. And couldn’t there be a miracle? He could almost see such a miracle. He’d imagined it so clearly and he and Rosie had dreamed of one together many times.

  The door opened, but it wasn’t the duchess. Still the duke.

  “Have you not gone?” the duke said. His cravat was tied now, Johnny noticed, and the duke seemed almost angry.

  “I’m supposed to be delivering a message to the duchess, Your Lord Grace,” Johnny said. “Sir.”

  “You’ll have to settle for me, I’m afraid,” the duke said, and Johnny thought he was holding back a smile.

  “The thing is, Your Grace, sir, that Mrs. Allman must see the duchess as soon as she’s conveniently able to appear in the study. Your Grace, sir.”

  “That’s fine, Johnny,” the duke said, and shut the door on him again. So he did know his name. Johnny got some satisfaction from that.

  Back in the kitchen, Johnny went into the dark, solemn room that was Mrs. Allman’s office. Hardly befitting the historitor of a Regency-era majestic, Johnny thought. Shouldn’t she be in a grand room upstairs, something with a bank of windows, damask drapes, and a fancy desk?

  “I delivered the message, Mrs. Allman,” Johnny said. “But I don�
��t know when she’ll be there.”

  “That’s fine, Johnny,” Mrs. Allman said. “Thank you.” She seemed to be distracted, hardly able to look in his direction, staring at one of the walls that could have, but didn’t have, a window in it.

  “Make sure they’re finished with the study, Johnny. I’ll go up in a moment.”

  “Sorry, Cook. Mrs. Allman’s orders,” Johnny said as he grabbed Rosie’s arm and ran up to the study with her.

  “What’s going on?” Rosie said. She’d been helping Cook decorate the delicate miniature desserts, and it seemed they’d never get everything ready in time for the ball tonight.

  “It’s the duchess, Rosie,” Johnny said. “Mrs. Allman had me send for her. I think something’s wrong.”

  “Maybe she’s got an appointment with a real doctor,” Rosie said.

  “A real doctor?”

  “Not like that quack from Brixton,” Rosie said. “The duchess should see someone reliable. Someone sober.”

  “I didn’t know she was sick,” Johnny said. The siblings were straightening up the already thoroughly clean and neat study. Nothing further really needed to be done.

  “Johnny,” Rosie said. “You can’t be that dense.”

  “I’m not dense at all.” Johnny did his best feigned-insulted posture, and Rosie laughed.

  “She’s pregnant, you silly boy.”

  “Oh,” said Johnny. “Then you’re probably right. But I didn’t know there was anyone other than Doc Hoffstead on 5730.”

  “Maybe it’s him after all, then,” Rosie said. “Let’s get back. I have to finish the meringues.”

  Before they left the room, Johnny readjusted the bronze sea goddess, who had reappeared in the study just as mysteriously as she had disappeared. She was looking out the window now.

  Chapter 99

  “I’m going back on the transport tomorrow,” Trevelton said to Saybrook when they finally came to a stop at the creek that was the boundary between Hollyhock and Brixton.

 

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